Corresponding With Shadows
by Sable Fennec
Summary: SLASH: DMHP. Harry copes with Sirius' death by writing to him. Hedwig carries them off, and Harry likes to think that Sirius is getting them. But what if Draco was the one receiving the letters? CHAPTER FOUR UP. Finally.
1. I: The Amiss Life

**Corresponding**

**With Shadows** (Arc I)

By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite, formerly Yoruko

_Slash warning! Draco/Harry, post-OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in-character as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny._

**The First Correspondence: The Amiss Life**

Revised Edition

**July 5**

It is such a hard thing, to lose someone. While before you could always think of it objectively and realize how horrendous it is, when it actually happens it captivates you like the mournful demise of the last ray of sun when the day finishes. I considered the possibility of one of my friends dying more often than was, perhaps, good for me, but it was never a reality, never a real option. After the events at the Department of Mysteries, I was never the same.

Am, am, I correct myself insistently. I can't keep distancing myself, but it's just…just so bloody _difficult _sometimes. No, not sometimes—all of the time. It is an aching pain that never wanes, a parasite that thrives within a wound in my heart. I look around as I do my chores and feel as if a burr has buried deep inside me. Who would have thought that the loss of one person could make me see the world so differently? It occurs to me that quite a few people might, actually; those that have experienced the tragedy themselves.

As I lay on my bed, I cannot bring myself to think past one thing: Sirius. Even contemplating it is hurtful, an injury that throbs. My only other alternative is to gaze upon the ceiling, unthinking and unblinking, not seeing even the grimy, cracked plaster. But images of my godfather still flash behind my eyes, regardless of my lurid state of mind. Homework has already been finished, and checked and double- and triple-checked. Hermione would be proud. The threat of the Order upon the Dursleys was sufficient to allow me a strange mix of freedoms: once again imprisoned in my room and receiving less sustenance than is probably good for me, they allow me to keep my school things with me and assign less chores, most likely because they don't want to see me again. Although I suspect Dumbledore hinted that I was being watched at all times, which is in itself an irritant. The dearth of food does not upset me; I hardly have an appetite nowadays.

An owl flies into my bedroom, and I am apprehensive and annoyed, yet grateful for the respite. Spirits lightened from seeing Hedwig again, I smile softly, a bare movement of my features as I pet her, replacing her food and water. She coos in loving response, and such a simple action makes an odd difference in the world, the blue tones shifting to slightly less-skewed hues. Hedwig is a pure white blotch of shocking color against the scenery of negligent disarray; gray lines the walls, devoid of any decorations, and the old floorboards are that pale shade of grayish white that it only achieves at great age. They creak occasionally, which annoys and relieves me by turns. The furniture is limited to my measly four-poster, barely a mattress with sheets placed on top of an old metal frame, and my Hogwarts trunk, which I use to write and sit upon conversely. The cage Hedwig spends some time in is placed next to the headboard, adjacent to the window.

I have found myself to be an insomniac. Nightmares are not the only deterrent; I feel useless as I lay about, as if my entire existence is meaningless except for the insistent need to defeat Voldemort. I muse upon the fears that my life will not mean anything after he is dead, but they do not last long. If I could feel such pain at losing Sirius, how must others feel? I am incapable of even killing one lone man, and because of this they suffer. An example that returns to me is Remus Lupin, who I dearly wish to speak with again, but I am too afraid of his opinion of me to approach him. I am not brave; I am not anything extraordinary. I am a pathetic boy, lauded as a hero, as the savior of the world, when I cannot even get an Outstanding on my Potions OWL. So much for my career as an Auror, although I do not think I could stand to work every day in the Ministry after what had happened. They say that the ache lessens with time; I wonder if I will have enough time to feel that happen.

Finally I open the letter, and my smile, long faded, is something to reminisce about. It is from Hermione, and she offers condolences.

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope I find you well, although I do not hold too much hope for this. I am ever so worried about you! Please, please do not blame yourself for Sirius' death. After all, he wouldn't want you to think that way, would he? You don't blame him for your parents, do you? I know you don't, so don't torture yourself over this. If nothing else, work towards the future; you can live so his sacrifice is not in vain._

_I do not have any experience with losing a loved one, but my mother tells me it is extremely painful, which I do not doubt. I have asked her and looked a few things up in some books about healthy ways to cope, and everything has said that blaming yourself will only prolong the hurt! Well, I'm sorry for the repetition, and I'm sure you're sick of meaningless platitudes by now, anyway. One thing constructive that I did find was a habit of many old cultures – especially the Asian ones – which is to write letters to the one who passed away. Write them whenever you feel the need, and know that he will be reading them some day. Mum says that it helped her a great deal after the death of her father, so I hope it helps you, too._

_Enough of that, though! Has anything new been going on in your life? I rather doubt this, considering the Dursleys, but I do hope they are not quite so horrid this summer. Perhaps the Order scared them into submission. That would certainly be an improvement. Currently I'm inquiring as to whether or not I can see Ron again in a few weeks' time, and, since I'm muggle-born, maybe I could visit you. Is there some kind of preferred excuse that would hold well for this? Mentioning Hogwarts would probably not be for the best, so I shall think of some and tell them to you beforehand. Also, I'll ask Dumbledore for permission, of course, even though I suspect you've had rather enough of Dumbledore. I must say that I can sympathize with you, but I ask you to remember that he is trying his best, and is only human. I know this will not seem like much, but I am not making excuses; I support you totally in whatever you wish to do, Harry. Please, though, at least listen to me before dismissing me. That is all I ask._

_I attended a book conference on the Lord of the Rings_ _by Tolkien, which you might know of, in light of the recent films made. It was quite good in some respects, although rather disappointing in others. Have you read them yourself? They were certainly revolutionary, and I find them refreshingly droll at times. Lastly, I must ask, for I am rather at a loss: what would you wish for your birthday? _

_I miss you terribly, Harry, and worry about you constantly. Do write back soon, if only to alleviate my fears (although that depends entirely upon the content of your response). I eagerly await your reply._

_Sincerely and with love,_

_Hermione_

As with everything else these days, my initial response is simply a numb complacency. Automatically I move to acquire a fresh sheet of parchment, and I place it on top of my trunk, then move the ink bottle and old, ragged quill next to it. It takes me quite a few minutes to formulate my reply; I do not want to have to use more parchment than necessary, since it is not easy for me to obtain more, should I run out, and it would be disgustingly pitiful if I were reduced to making replies on the back of the sent letters. My periodic assurances to the Order do nothing but diminish my supply, and as such I was tempted to use torn-off scraps, so short were they. But that would be impolite, and I was learning to anticipate, if not enjoy, the subtle manipulations that politics of any kind embodies.

_Hermione,_

_Thank you for your concern. Please do not worry about me overmuch; it will not change anything, after all. I am doing alright, and try not to dwell on things. The Dursleys have, actually, improved; while I am kept in my room, I am not allotted so many chores. When Hedwig returns with this, would you give her some water for me? I am concerned about her. Thanks for the advice, too; I just might try that out for myself. _

_It would be great to see you again, but I am not sure as to what would pass with my relatives for an excuse. Certainly Hogwarts would not work. Perhaps you were someone I met at the train station? I'm not as good at preemptive thinking as you are, though, so I'd best leave it up to you. On the subject of those books: I've read _the Hobbit _as part of my muggle schooling (and also since Dudley left it lying around), but not the others. I'm glad you had fun. I don't have any idea about what I want for my birthday. Whatever you end up selecting will be more than fine. Once again, do not worry about me too often._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry_

I was not particularly eager to see Hermione again, but I definitely couldn't tell her that. There was no way I was discussing Sirius with her, either. Her concern merely succeeded in making me uncomfortable. I wasn't used to these displays of affection; Ron's letters were much easier to answer. Maybe being vague would make her let up. It wasn't likely, but I had nothing else to do, did I? I hope I wasn't too forward in asking her to take care of Hedwig, but there was nothing else I could really do. There was no reason to send her to Ron, after all, what with Pig being our messenger.

While I was at it, I might as well formulate something to the Order. I avoided directing it to Dumbledore, since he was likely to give me some kind of long-winded reply filled with, as Hermione had suggested, useless platitudes. Professor McGonagall was formal, and stuffy, enough for my purposes. After a while these letters grew tiresome, and I amused myself with thinking of new ways to word them. It wasn't as if I had much to do, but there was, as always, much to distract myself from. As of late, I noticed that I'd grown quieter, more prone to keeping my own council, and secrecy soon came as second nature.

At that exact moment, however, the idea of writing to Sirius had never held more appeal, especially since I could tell him anything, even the things I would not dream of informing him of were he alive. I wasn't quite certain about this, though I was willing to give it a try. Not just now, but possibly later…

_Professor McGonagall:_

_I am writing to once again inform you that I am fine. Nothing has gone amiss._

_Harry Potter_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

She could do nothing but sigh as she read Harry's response to her inquiry. Tempted to lay her head in her arms and indulge in a good bout of hopeless sorrow, Hermione instead put her mind to formulating a possible reason for her visiting Harry. He had been more detached and exclusionary since school had ended, which she had expected, but it still hurt her heart to know what pain he must be in. If only there was a way to make everything better… But she knew that was fruitless, and Hermione could only hope desperately that things would go better for her friend. It was likely futile, but it was all she could do.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It had taken a long, long time to write just the small amount that I had, and I cried for the first time as I wrote it. Things had poured out of my mind and through my hand to appear on the paper, things that I did not even knew I felt or thought. Tears stained the ink in a few places, but they were hopefully inconspicuous. I wished I hadn't seemed so pathetic in my wording, and it was so rambling it was a wonder it made any sense whatsoever, but if I wanted to be true to myself at all I could not erase a bit of it, even the traitorous parts that revealed how I hoped. Hoping was, perhaps, the most painful thing of all.

The letter was written, but Hedwig was not here. A few days passed, and Pig came with Ron's words, which I replied to promptly, having nothing else to do. I did not reread the letter I had written to Sirius, for the act of composing it in itself was the most relaxing. I was able to think of him without quite as much grief, although it still overwhelmed me. I wasn't certain that I was glad that Sirius would someday read my ever-so-private thoughts, but I didn't want to feel anything, so I didn't examine my inner workings as I usually did.

When Hedwig returned, I set aside the response from Hermione she had brought and wistfully presented her with the one to Sirius. She cooed mournfully and, with it clutched in her beak, took off. Tears came to my eyes once again, but I stubbornly repressed them, refusing to bawl over something so meaningless. Now there was no taking the betraying words back, and I didn't think I wanted to. All that was left was to write another letter, but I could not manage it right now. I didn't doubt that eventually another would come to me, however. Time was something I did have plenty of in the summer, which was odd, considering how very little of it I had anywhere else.

_Sirius,_

_I'm so terribly sorry for everything I put you through. I have little hope of your forgiveness, as I know I was unbearably selfish, but I swear I didn't mean to. I miss you so much it is incredible; I miss you even more than my parents, for I could never speak to them. You, however…You I want to talk to. I go through my day and see things and think things and my first response is to ask you or inform you, but overall I wish I could speak to you, just one last conversation. I know you won't reply to this, as I suspect there isn't a way those up in Heaven (or wherever you are) would allow you to. Perhaps you could say a greeting to my parents for me. I want you to know that I love you, even though I never told you when you were alive, and I wish more than anything, even more than I wish that you were here again, that I had. You were my father, not merely my godfather, and I could not have had a better one. Thank you for everything, and thank you for even the things you didn't give me. I swear I'll avenge you; I swear I'll defeat Voldemort, and your murderer, Lestrange, shall not escape, either. It is the only solace I can offer you, but it is so pitiful. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for all of it. Please do not hate me._

_Harry_

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Oh my goodness, I'm having _such_ fun with this fic! This little bunny latched onto me last week, and I wrote all this in one sitting. It's absolutely amazing, especially considering I should be writing my other fic, but oh well. :shrugs: Hope you all like this as much as I liked writing it. I have more motivation to write this than I do my other fic right now, but I'm not sure if it'll last. It all depends on my reviews. I can only manage to write Harry in first person, so sorry to all of you Draco-lovers (me included), unless I'm feeling really inspired, it just won't happen. Next chapter would be from Draco's POV mainly, though. I think. I'm just letting this take me where it wants. Feedback is more than appreciated; I live off of it! Thoughts on my characterizations and writing style, especially on how much I had Harry reveal in his letters, would be ideal. Thanks to all of you that read this.


	2. II: The Nostalgic Memoir

** Corresponding**

**With Shadows** (Arc I)

By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite, formerly Yoruko

_Slash warning! Draco/Harry, post-OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in-character as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny._

**The Second Correspondence: The Nostalgic Memoir**

Revised Edition

**July 6**

The owl gracefully winged through the window and settled on his writing desk, deftly placing the letter on the pile already there. With a curiously specific glance towards him, it gave a slightly indignant hoot before taking off the way it had come.

Intrigued despite himself, Draco absentmindedly grabbed his elegant letter opener from its place and smoothly broke the seal on the message. The parchment inside was slightly crumpled, and he withdrew it, reading it with eager anticipation.

_Sirius,_

_I'm so terribly sorry for everything I put you through. I have little hope of your forgiveness, as I know I was unbearably selfish, but I swear I didn't mean to. I miss you so much it is incredible; I miss you even more than my parents, for I could never speak to them. You, however…You I want to talk to. I go through my day and see things and think things and my first response is to ask you or inform you, but overall I wish I could speak to you, just one last conversation. I know you won't reply to this, as I suspect there isn't a way those up in Heaven (or wherever you are) would allow you to. Perhaps you could say a greeting to my parents for me. I want you to know that I love you, even though I never told you when you were alive, and I wish more than anything, even more than I wish that you were here again, that I had. You were my father, not merely my godfather, and I could not have had a better one. Thank you for everything, and thank you for even the things you didn't give me. I swear I'll avenge you; I swear I'll defeat Voldemort, and your murderer, Lestrange, shall not escape, either. It is the only solace I can offer you, but it is so pitiful. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for all of it. Please do not hate me._

_Harry_

At first Draco relished the opportunity for blackmail, but shock seeped into his thoughts as he read on. This had to be a correspondence to Sirius Black, the deceased godfather of the Boy-Who-Lived, but why would the imbecile write to someone who was dead? Maybe it was some incomprehensible muggle custom, he thought with a cold sneer. While the contents of the letter was most definitively interesting, it did not really supply any information he did not already have. Why the letter had been sent to him was what he could not fathom. It was obvious that it was unintentional, but why would the stupid bird bring it to him?

Finally he decided that he'd need more information before making any conclusions, and musingly wondered whether or not any more would arrive.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**July 8**

Smirking as the white owl once again entered his chambers in mid afternoon, Draco was almost amused at the rapidity of the next correspondence. Potter must be getting desperate, he thought, completely devoid of sympathy. This time the epistle made a bit more sense, or at least as much sense as such a person could be expected to make.

_Sirius,_

_There's really nothing more for me to say that I haven't said in the past letter. Well, the things that aren't necessary, I mean. It would be pointless reiteration, so I guess I'll just tell you what's happened since school's ended. While I know it's a good thing that more Death Eaters are in Azkaban, I can't really feel anything except numbness for it. I mean, it's not like they'll be there long, right? I'm still furious with the whole lot of them, of course, but I'm more upset with Dumbledore. How could he keep such things from me? Has he been playing me for a pawn the entire time? I don't know if I can ever trust him again when doing so previously only led to your death. I'm sorry, so very sorry for that…I think of you every day, and nothing I do can make the ache go away. I'm not even looking forward to school, although the Dursleys have lightened up on me. I haven't told them you're dead, so the combined threat of you and the Order must be working. I swear you'll not have died in vain, I really do…I know I must sound like a broken record, but there's not much else for me to say at this point. Just…just that I'm sorry, and I love you. Wish I could see you again. Miss you terribly._

_Harry_

Pathetic, how much Potter had come to depend on Black. Really, didn't he know the meaning of independence? And such naïveté! Of _course _Dumbledore was playing him for the fool. How could he not see that? But… most interesting about his relatives. _Most _interesting. Perhaps his home life was not the glory of gold Severus seemed to think it was. It would certainly explain a lot, and Draco wasn't so blinded by hate that he couldn't see reality, or at least certain aspects of it. It was definitely food for thought.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**July 13**

Despite himself, Draco had found that he was eager for Potter's next supplement. It provided a certain… entertainment during the usually boring summer months. Almost a hobby, if one could call it that. He'd thought about what Potter must be going through, unwillingly wondering what it would be like if his mother died, and quickly shied from that prospect. Potter was obviously weak. It was so obvious Draco couldn't begin to deny it.

But then the next letter arrived, and he couldn't help but empathize, albeit very much to his disgust.

_Dear Sirius,_

_Some days I wake up and wonder if today will be the day your letter arrives with your response. A different bird every time, and I can only guess where you are. But then I remember, and it's hard. It's hard to do what my aunt tells me to when all I can think is that I never cooked your_ _favorite breakfast for you, never thought to ask what it was. Would Remus know? Probably. I don't want to ask, though. I don't want to bring up bad memories for him, but I wonder how he could be in less of a daze than I am. Or is it just me that feels like this? I can't tell._

_Hermione keeps asking if I'm alright. I don't know what to tell her. Ron doesn't say anything, and I don't know if he would understand if I did tell him something. Even Hermione's never lost someone like this, not even a grandparent. Why does no one try to understand me, instead of fit me into a preexisting mold? I guess everyone does that, even you. But at least you tried._

_Harry_

There were many cross-outs on this one, as if the writer couldn't decide what word to choose and kept changing his mind after starting to write it down. But that was pretty typical of Potter, Draco thought. He carefully did not think on how similar his predicament sounded to Draco's, about no one understanding him. But wasn't Potter just as guilty of that as he complained about everyone else being? Self-righteously justified in the complete absence of veracity Potter's words could contain, Draco spent the rest of his day secure in the knowledge that he hadn't changed; Potter was just making some very stupid – and quite incorrect – observations. What a whiner.

But the next day, he could not help but think that maybe he wasn't reading all the subtleties of the context. He read the letter again, then again, until the paper was soft from him absently smoothing the lines of the corners. It was easy enough to tell from that first paragraph that Black had been on the run during their correspondence, but did the rest of that mean that Potter was forced to cook for his family, like a common house elf? It didn't seem very likely to him, but Draco didn't have enough information to tell if there was discreet resentment for these Dursleys lurking beneath the words, and so he started a list of what he could discern from the letters. Next was the grudging acknowledgement of the second paragraph. Now, with a clear head, he could see that H – Potter had admitted to being just as guilty of that as the rest of the people he was referring to. And it seemed that he wasn't as close to his friends as Draco had thought, had taken for granted. He'd used to feel smoldering envy for Potter, but now… now it was hard to hold onto that, and not let it be replaced by sympathy.

When his mother called him to dinner and he finally admitted that he could speculate no more until the next epistle, Draco put them and his musings on the context in a small, ornately wooden box, where the rest of his valuable documents were contained. It could only be opened by him; not even his father had that access. It was strange, but he was starting to feel as if the letters were a very private thing, as if he should respect Potter's privacy. But that thought led places Draco didn't want to go, so he tried to put it out of his head for the interim between then and the next owl. He almost succeeded.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**July 15**

_Sirius_ –

_I keep thinking about you, what you would think of this or that. You always had an opinion, and even though you weren't always right, it was comforting somehow. To know that I could turn to you and ask you something, and you'd always give me a sincere, legitimate answer, no matter the question. I have so many questions to ask you. Where are you now?_

_Would you be disappointed in me now, to learn what a wreck I am? The sorting hat wanted to put me in Slytherin. Did you know? If I had been in Slytherin, if I hadn't protested, would you still have given me a chance? Maybe not._

_It's taken a while to realize this, but prejudice is something the whole wizarding world is guilty of, maybe especially me. But it's so difficult when everyone who depends on me is telling me one thing, and my conscience says something different. I've been so afraid of being rejected, hated, alone, that I've ignored myself, and that's selfish. Difficult to admit, even now, that I'm guilty of that, but isn't that what being selfish means? So I'm going to do what I think is right from now on, regardless of how hard it is to do, stand up for the people I despise when they aren't being given a fair chance. I don't care what others think of me anymore. If they can't like me and accept me as I am and what I have to do, then I'll find new friends, new people that will support me. It'll be really hard, but I think I'll be better off for it. _

_And isn't everything worthwhile difficult to achieve, anyway?_

_Harry _

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Fwoosh! Major sorries for taking so long, totally unexpected. Writer's block came up and bit me on the ass, unfortunately. But I think I got it out of the way now. School's hectic, though, and me, little perfectionistic honors student, am an overachiever, so don't expect rapid updates, but also don't expect really slow ones. Special thanks go to Ca for loving it and getting it past the idea, and also to Lara Black, Sand3, AoiGensou and padfoot887 for the wonderful reviews and for placing me on your favorites list, respectively. You all motivate my writing.

But seriously, I didn't mean for this to turn out so angsty. O.o;; I thought it was going to be fluff, and this is light angst by my standards (aka what I usually read ;; ) and I'm sorry for making you guys cry, but I also love that I can provoke such a response out of you. And hey, Sand – I feel the same way, so don't worry.

:grabs eagerly for cookies from Aoi: Gimme! Yum. And yes, it helped motivate me greatly. I actually went and made brownies right after you said that. So, as thanks to all my reviewers, you each get a brownie! Seriously, I never would have cranked out this chapter if you hadn't said something, each and every one of you. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy when I get reviews. :throws celebratory confetti at you: This story has the potential to go right through the war, very detailed, no skiving out on the Voldemort Issue or anything, and as realistic portrayal of the characters that I can manage. Sorry for such a long Author's Note, and here's my questions for the chapter:

How was my characterization of Draco? I try to make it really believable and accurate. Harry's letter content? I've never lost anyone myself so it's mostly supposition. Do you want me to write out every letter Draco receives, or what? It'll draw out the time between then and when Hogwarts starts, just so you know. Do you want more letters, more Draco, or more Harry?


	3. III: Inexorable Sands

** Corresponding**

**With Shadows** (Arc I)

By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite, formerly Yoruko

_Slash warning! Draco/Harry, post-OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in-character as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny._

**The Third Correspondence: Inexorable Sands**

Revised Edition

**July 15**

_Sirius_ –

_I keep thinking about you, what you would think of this or that. You always had an opinion, and even though you weren't always right, it was comforting somehow. To know that I could turn to you and ask you something, and you'd always give me a sincere, legitimate answer, no matter the question. I have so many questions to ask you. Where are you now?_

_Would you be disappointed in me now, to learn what a wreck I am? The sorting hat wanted to put me in Slytherin. Did you know? If I had been in Slytherin, if I hadn't protested, would you still have given me a chance? Maybe not._

_It's taken a while to realize this, but prejudice is something the whole wizarding world is guilty of, maybe especially me. But it's so difficult when everyone who depends on me is telling me one thing, and my conscience says something different. I've been so afraid of being rejected, hated, alone, that I've ignored myself, and that's selfish. Difficult to admit, even now, that I'm guilty of that, but isn't that what being selfish means? So I'm going to do what I think is right from now on, regardless of how hard it is to do, stand up for the people I despise when they aren't being given a fair chance. I don't care what others think of me anymore. If they can't like me and accept me as I am and what I have to do, then I'll find new friends, new people that will support me. It'll be really hard, but I think I'll be better off for it. _

_And isn't everything worthwhile difficult to achieve, anyway?_

_Harry _

As per usual with things that shocked him, Draco stared at the letter in his hands for long moments. He processed what was told, and then read it again. And again. Incredulously, he said aloud, "_Slytherin?_" But then his mind started to catch up, to unwillingly draw parallels he'd been reluctant to see. Yes, it did make sense; if one took away the unadultered recklessness of Harry Potter, you were left with someone rebellious and quite conniving. This, of course, only garnered a smidgen of respect from Draco, and certainly not any liking. He was a Slytherin himself, and however intriguing this development was, it made him more suspicious as well. Besides, hadn't Potter said he'd protested? No one in their right minds protested being sorted into his House. Healthy skepticism permeated his opinion of the rest of the text, but that was only to be expected.

However much sympathy he had acquired for Potter since these absurd letters had started to come, liking – and believing - him was a long way off.

Or, at least, that's what Draco told himself.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**July 16**

_Sirius –_

_The thing I miss most about you is your smile, I think. I look into a crowd of teenagers walking down the road, and I wonder what you looked like at that age. Whether you and my father, and Remus, and even Peter, were ever that carefree. Whether anyone is ever innocent. What is innocence, if everyone is born only to die? Some people say that from the moment you're born you are slowly dying, but that theory, while quite true, is also pessimistic. And I don't want to think like that. It makes me depressed, it makes me feel things. Feeling things is hard. I wish I could just shut off my brain sometimes, ignore my thoughts and emotions for a while. That'd be nice. But I guess that's where sociopaths come from, and we already have enough of those in the world. We don't need another Voldemort._

_The similarities between he and I are simply astounding. Only now do I realize what Dumbledore, and quite a few other people, must have been so afraid of. Bad childhood, excelled in DADA at school, sorted – or almost – into Slytherin, wands with the same core, etc. And just what's up with that wand thing? I'm so fed up with this destiny stuff. I don't want to save the world, I don't want to save anything. Why does everyone expect these things of me, just because some crackpot old teacher spouted a prophecy? So what about how mystical it was? I don't want to acknowledge that it's probably, most likely, true. I don't want to do any of those things she said I would. Is that shirking my duties, my responsibilities? Probably. But can't I be just a bit selfish? When lives, many lives, are on the line, though, I guess not. That's too high a price for me to pay for my own self-indulgence._

_And I won't pay it again._

_Harry _

Unwillingly, he found himself being contemplative instead of judgmental. So... Potter was the proverbial unwilling savior? Well. That was new.

Draco tried very hard not to think of what conclusions this made, not to realize how unfair, how prejudiced, how biased he'd been. He succeeded.

Somewhat.

Self-denial was something Draco had down to a fine art, but he was hardly proud of it. And coming out of the darkness was always hard; seeing the metaphorical light, blinding. Especially when one was being dragged out of the cave they'd retreated into out of cowardice.

Not that he admitted that about himself. No, he wasn't quite that open yet. But it was coming.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

**July 18**

_Sirius - _

_I've been thinking a lot lately about Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew, betrayal, and the true state of things is more accurate, I suppose, but it's a controversial topic from any angle. Even now it's hard to accept that someone so trusted could fall so far from other's expectations of him, but that's what happens to everyone, or at least quite a few people. I wonder whether there is a traitor in our own midst, and then I can't help but think that of course there is. But that leads to questions of who is it, and I don't want to place anyone under that kind of suspicion, no matter how accurate my suppositions may be. I don't like thinking that of anyone, but the truth is the truth, hard as it may be._

_Aside from that, there is the frequent musings about what life must have been like pre-war, or should I say pre-Voldemort? You lived through it. I know from Hermione, and Ron, actually, that he wasn't inactive while you were in school, but he wasn't the terror he is now. People even scoffed at one point about calling him 'Lord Voldemort,' like he was being presumptuous. What happened to that? Where did that audacity go? Buried under fear, and sorrow, I suspect. At one point I'm sure I would have been disdainful of such weak-minded 'fools,' but now I can only sympathize, because it's always the same way with me. Only I've let my hate overshadow my fear; I've let my anger emerge above my loss. What we need is more people that are like that. Every person is a needed support, and I see that now. Every person is valuable. Even Neville, who may seem pretty insignificant in the real light of things, but what if he were the one to save some person's life one day, and that person made some great invention, or stopped a big threat, because they were still alive? _

_I've been getting strangely philosophical lately. It's almost like these letters are my journal. I could never keep one, though. It's so much easier to imagine that you're on the other end, receiving these, understanding me perfectly, formulating replies that you will never send. That I will never read. But would you truly be so sympathetic to me? This has plagued me, and it will not leave. Would you still wish to know me, if you saw the truth of me? I don't know. And that scares me more than anything._

_Harry_

"I don't need this," said Draco to himself suddenly, "I could put up a spell to block them. Why should I deal with Potter's stupid weaknesses?" But the sneer that should have twisted his lips didn't appear, and he felt his thoughts begin to fumble awkwardly. What if Potter really _was _taking his newfound acceptance to heart? Was is possible that their friendship, which had been destroyed before it'd even begun, to have a second chance?

Of course not. He was a fool, a blubbering fool, for even thinking it. What would his father say if he heard such consideration? On the coattails of that thought came another: that he could do something thoughtlessly cruel, utterly crushing of Harry – of Potter's confidence. If he could pull it off. And he surely could. He was Draco Malfoy, after all.

And so Draco spent the next few hours working on a fake letter from Sirius Black, one as accurate as he could make it, as sure to make Potter depressed as he could. But in the end, he didn't send it.

He didn't know Sirius Black that well, after all. What if Potter traced it back to him? Then the letters would stop coming. He might recognize his owl. He couldn't know Black's handwriting.

So why did he feel the desire to send Harry a letter signed with his own name?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Father, what do you know about Sirius Black?" asked Draco abruptly at one dinner.

Lucius ceased eating and gazed at him with speculative, hooded eyes. "I should not think you would be very interested in the topic, Draco."

He knew when to read danger into his father's words, and he, wisely, did so then. "No, you're right, of course. I don't know what I was thinking." How could he expect his father to volunteer information? These correspondences with Potter were going right to his head, making him think that help would be as readily available to him as it was to Harry.

"See that you learn more prudence," replied Lucius coolly, chin raised and faintly scornful look etched into his features.

"I will, Father," he assured him. What else could he say?

But Draco found himself wondering how a similar conversation would go with Harry. If he asked Potter a question, a probing one, would he answer him truthfully, or use authority to shunt aside the query itself, as his father had done? In any case, it was all pointless speculation. He'd never have the opportunity to ask such a question in the first place, and Draco told himself firmly that he didn't _want_ one.

A lie, of course.

It unnerved him to recognize it.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Sorry about the typos and everything; I'm hardly omniscient, and I'm sure one day when I'm not inspired but am still bored I'll get around to revising everything. That day is not coming soon, however. Lol. And about the elipses and formalized wording – sorry, again, that's just how I am. It's reflexive. I happen to be vaguely fond of my writing style, since my plotting skills are absolutely abysmal, so it takes a lot of effort to make it simpler than normal. I know Harry doesn't have that wide of a useable vocabulary; just run with me, though, okay? I'm sure Draco sounds like that, though. And the elipses: I'm very expressive, so I actually do write that in both letters and IM. Again, just a habit of mine, but I'll crack down on it for this fic. Thanks for notifying me! And I'm planning on making their relationship as releastic as possible, but that doesn't mean that Draco won't develop a crush on Harry very early on in the school year.

And, as most everyone requested more Harry letters, which I had not anticipated, you have received them! Also, more Draco is on the way. I won't be doing alternating chapters, just here and there, whatever I feel like, mainly. Thankies greatly to all the reviewers, gracias, grazie, merci, arigatou and all that.

Lastly, I apologize for the lateness of this, but my creativity is notoriously uncooperative, so this'll get updated when it does cooperative.


	4. IV: That Thing Called Puberty

**Corresponding**

**With Shadows**

By: Handmaiden of Aphrodite

_Slash warning! Draco/Harry, AU after OotP, spoilers for all of it therein; also, everyone's as in character __as humanly possible. I own nothing except the plot bunny._

**The Forth Correspondence: That Thing Called Puberty**

**July 19**

I looked silently out my window. Writing letters to Sirius had definitely helped, but it wasn't like there was a time line for grief. I couldn't set a clock by my recovery, and more's the pity. It'd have been nice to have something concrete for once in my life. There was no extension to that thought: I wanted something solid, something real and dependable. My godfather had been that.

Now he was gone.

The impulse to write arose within in me; by now it was familiar. I moved slowly, letting my mind settle into a pattern of coherence, and knelt before my school trunk. Parchment, quill and ink were already set upon it, ready for use. It wasn't like I had much else to do these days aside from chores, and I'd already completed those.

_Sirius – _

_Your death is horrible. It seems like the defining moment of my life, as if I've been consumed. Sometimes I want to follow you into it._

My eyes widened. I reread the words I'd written in my own hand. A quick intake of breath, audible and shocked; why had I written that? This much introspection couldn't be good for me. I hastily scribbled out the last sentence. Whether Sirius was receiving these letters or not – and I had to believe he was – admitting you had contemplated suicide was hardly something to tell one's guardian. That was the very meaning of the word, after all: guardian, as in, prevent silly teenagers from killing themselves.

I hadn't seriously thought about it, after all. It was more a deep seated longing for simplicity. I wanted more than anything to forget about the existence of everything wretched and vile in my life. It seemed to compose so much of it. Eliminating those things was my life's task, it felt like, the purpose of my existence.

How depressing. I firmed in my reasoning and went on.

_...as if I've been consumed. Most of the pain was – is – because I've felt like it's my fault you died. It's been long enough now, though, that I have to wonder about that. The responsibility might surely be mine, and justifiably so. But was I the actual cause? Or did you really feel that strongly for me, knowing what was probably coming and going ahead anyway?_

_Remus told me that you were prepared to sacrifice everything you had, your life, your memories, all of it, just for my sake. What an awful thought. I don't want anyone to do that for me. To be a martyr... It's not so grand. It's the fate probably awaiting me as well, but at least I get the dubious pleasure of living on in history. You? You're blamed for selling out my parents._

_It's disgusting. I hate the government. I hate Fudge. I hate Voldemort. I hate all the damn people who think they know so much. They don't know me! No one does! Not even you, but that was the miraculous part about you. You didn't need to know. Is that what is called unconditional love? I think it must be._

_I miss my parents a lot. So much that when I looked in the Mirror of Erised way back in first year, that's who I saw._

_But I know that if I looked now, I'd see you. Voldemort wouldn't exist. Not because he was dead, but because he never lived. Tom Marvolo Riddle would've stayed sane, and a Head Boy, and probably a contemptuous creature in his own right, but not a megalomaniacal tyrant. Do you know who'd also be there?_

_Well, if you do, that's one up on me. I'm lonely, and not just from missing you. My friends don't feel like friends. My teachers are too frenetic to be trustworthy. And the worst part is that I have no one to turn to. I've never been a talkative person, you know, but everyone needs someone once in a while. Even you, right?_

_So why didn't you talk to me?_

Again I stared at the words. What was I thinking today? There was no possible way I could be so accusatory. This was Sirius, for god's sake! He was dead, had died to save me! I vigorously crossed it out, furious with myself. Black marks streaked the page angrily in two places, ugly blemishes on the raw vulnerability the words exposed.

The strokes of my signature were abrupt, sharp, and swift.

The letter was sent soon after.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

July 20 

Sighing, I heaved the black plastic bag over my shoulder and began the trek to the garbage cans. They were kept near the fence in the back yard, on the edge of the property. Something so obsessively landscaped as the Dursley's yard would never have trash on the front lawn. God forbid a neighbor should glance over and see a leaf out of place.

I removed the lid to the recepticle, grunting as I lifted the immense weight up higher in order to shove it inside. The Dursleys always had an immense amount of garbage, and as one of the least pleasent jobs possible, it was, naturally, delegated to me. I turned back towards the house, thinking that it looked quite a bit like a camoflagued predator, looming in wait for unsuspecting prey to walk by.

Well, that was hardly me. I was anything but unsuspecting. I opened the screen door, and just as I was about to step inside, the high screech of my aunt's voice cut across the air as piercingly as any mechanical malfunction. Personally, I rather thought Aunt Petunia was a malfunction. My only uncertainty was of what kind.

"Harry Potter!" she screeched, unseen and offscreen of the stage of my life. "Don't you forget about the recycling again, you vexing child!"

"Child?" I muttured to myself, irritated at the slight. "Some child..." I raised my voice, careful to keep it bland. One thing I did not look for was trouble. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."

I caught traces of her chuffed murmuring from the next room, and pursed my lips. The anger and indignation I felt at everything welled up inside to the point of boiling. It felt as if my insides were being curdled by the sheer vehemence of my emotions. I didn't presume to any extravagence. At least, I didn't think so. I closed the door slowly and carefully, the rage in me kept confined to the tensity of my muscles. My arms were taught, and as soon as the knob was released, my fingers clenched into a fist.

Closing my eyes, I exhaled in a long moment of enforced regulation of sentiment. I would not let my feelings rule me any longer. The results of it the last time I had were clear, and despite my recent thoughts on the ambiguity of my guilt, that was an affirmation I took to be so important it was akin to a vow.

The recycling was in a low bin, more difficult to carry than the trash. I hefted it in both arms and began the short journey. Almost three quarters of the way there, a strong wind kicked up, blowing papers out of the bin and onto the lawn. I cursed loudly and effusively, drawing on all the vocabulary I'd learned from Ron, the twins, and Sirius over the years.

Ignoring the returning shout from the house – "Keep your mouth shut on those expletives, boy! We run a civil house!" bellowed Uncle Vernon (did my relatives all have ridiculously enhanced senses?) – I quickly strode to the line of sedate plastic recepticles and distributed the recycling. I placed the empty bin on the ground and sighed, looking around at the small mess of papers left behind. At least the wind hadn't persisted; otherwise I'd have looked a damn arse, trailing around after them, desperate to catch them and escape a reprimand.

I was really pretty pathetic sometimes. Maybe I'd write to Sirius about it, after I caught these infernal papers...

I was in for a surprise, however, as the last one I found was a pamphlet about maturing sexuality. It included a rather extensive section on homosexual people, including a list of common occurrences leading up to one's realization that they weren't straight. I scanned it absently, wondering at the lack of talk about anyone at school who was gay, as I walked back to the bins.

I stopped suddenly. I stared.

No way. No way was I...

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_Sirius –_

_I think I might be gay. This should be the last thought on my mind right now, what with the war and all, but somehow it's the first. Adolescense makes arses out of us all. What the bloody hell am I going to do? I'm not going to go out and start shagging blokes right and left, that's for damn sure, but what does this mean?_

_I guess the whole thing with Cho makes a lot more sense now. No wonder I always thought the kisses were odd. Well, I guess in the end it doesn't matter anyway, since I'm hardly looking for a romantic attachment. That's a mess I don't want any part of._

_I have to wonder, though – what did you do when you were my age? Did you ever have these thoughts? We never talked about anything like this. I never got the "birds and the bees talk." No one thought of it._

_I'm so alone. I don't know what to do._

_I'm sorry._

_Harry_

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Notes:

I can't believe it's been more than a year since I last updated. O.O In all honesty, I really considered this abandoned, but I was looking at my reviews again today and inspiration hit. So never underestimate your power, reviewers. :D

A quick note: I know where I'm going with this now. I have actual plot. Kind of. It's back to Harry for the moment, but if you're patient with me – and review a lot :D;;;; - I'll write the next chapter quickly. Yes, it'll be Draco's reaction. I promise that it'll also include more of Draco applying his recent thoughts to the world. And probably the chapter after that will be Draco and Harry meeting. Well, we'll see. I certainly have little idea how I'm going to get to the ending I envision, and I'm sure it'll change again before I even get there...

Thanks so much for bearing with me, and please forgive me any inconsistencies or silly things like Harry sounding too smart. If you have any thoughts whatsoever, please tell me anyway, though. Suggestions are always considered.

Lots of love, and here's an extra preview for next chapter in return for waiting so long:

_I don't want to be an Auror. Why did I tell McGonagall that? I don't know what I want to do with myself. I feel lost._

Incredible. Potter was simply incredible. He hadn't even thought about sex until he was almost sixteen? What a poofter.

_Kind of an amusing thought. A gay Auror. I wonder what sort of news headline that would make._

"Thinking of writing a letter, were you?" / "Yes." / "To whom, I wonder." / "It's no business of yours. Father." / "Careful, Draco. Be most careful. There are ways..."

* * *


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